Concerning Cabbages
by KayValo87
Summary: When four-year-old Enola seeks an answer to a curious question, she unwittingly starts a chain of events that lead to trouble for her brothers. (A Christmas Story)


**HAPPY HOLIDAYS!**

I apologize to all my regular readers at my lack of writing, but I am currently enrolled in a Masters program to become an English teacher. (Which is not easy when one is dyslexic ...) So, I have not stopped writing, I just have had trouble getting things finished between homework, class, and sleep. However, I am on break at the moment and will try to get a few things posted while I have the time. (School resumes on January 4th.)

This particular piece I wrote some time ago but was nervous about posting as I have never published anything in this fandom before. I'd like to thank DarkeFairie for proof reading it (months ago) to make sure my spelling was in the British style and my roommate for reading the Enloa Holmes books while watching Sherlock, thus reminding me that I still hadn't posted yet. It is also a holiday story, **set ten years before the first season** , so I thought it appropriate to post now.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or the rights of the Enola Holmes books. This is just what happened after I asked myself what one of them would look like inside the other.

Enjoy this little holiday with the Holmes siblings ...

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat at his computer, scanning several highly sensitive documents. His new position in the government came with a great deal of responsibility, but his aspirations ran higher. If he was going to continue up the executive ladder, he could not afford any distractions. However, explaining that to one's mother during the holidays was more difficult then negotiating police actions in less than friendly countries. Nevertheless, his parents had provided him with the privacy of his old bedroom to take care of his work-

"Hi Mikey!"

Make that semi-private. Apparently even a closed door could not keep his four-year-old sister out of where she decided she needed to be. If only his mother would allow him to install a basic lock.

"Enola," he said, keeping his voice even as he pulled up another document. "What did I say about coming in my room?"

"Not a'wess it was a'portant … but dis _is_ a'portant."

Mycroft sighed internally, thinking about how much easier his sister would be to understand when she lost the distinctive accent of a toddler. In any case, the last "important" matter she insisted on bringing to his attention involved a snail named Sherman or Herman; it was impossible to tell which with her speech pattern. All things considered, it was not likely that her current issue was more important than the safety of Britain's borders.

"Is the house on fire?"

"No," she answered, her dark curls bobbing as she shook her head.

"Is someone dead?"

"No."

"Then go talk to Sherlock. I'm sure he would be happy to help you."

She waited a minute, cocking her head at him, before hurrying off. Mycroft dismissed the whole incident and went back to work. Whatever her emergency had been, it was his brother's problem now.

 **/S\S/S\**

Sherlock looked over his notes, comparing them to the chemicals in his experiment. It had taken him weeks to get this much data, but recreating the exact settings he had achieved before being summoned to a holiday gathering was proving to be almost more difficult than it was worth, though not quite as difficult as convincing one's mother that a breakthrough in forensic science was more important than putting oneself in a turkey and pudding induced food comma.

"Sherwy? Sherwy, are you dere? Sherwy?"

Fortunately he had the foresight to bring a brick that could serve as a doorstop and deterrent to younger sisters. However, if he did not answer her knocking and rattling the door, she might escalate to fetching said mother. As much as they understood the importance of science, his parents had given him explicit instructions to spend "quality time" with his young sister, though this was quite difficult when using chemicals known to burn off skin.

"What is it, Enola?" he called through the door.

"I gots ta talk ta you."

Allowing an inward sigh at her grammatical problems, which she would hopefully grow out of in the next year or two, Sherlock adjusted one of his Bunsen burners. He really didn't have time for this, but he couldn't risk a report getting back to his mother that he had shut the girl out. Once he was sure that there was nothing too dangerous that his sister could reach, he crossed the room and pushed the brick out of the way with his foot.

"What is it?" he asked, towering in the doorway.

"I gots ta ask you somt'ing."

"What?"

"Um … did we come fwom cab'itches?"

Taking a moment to mentally recheck his initial translation, which still came out the same, Sherlock regretted opening the door. Still, the sincerity on his sister's face told him that he better come up with some sort of answer if he wanted any hope of continuing his experiments in peace. First things first, he had a question of his own.

"Why do you think we came from cabbages?"

"I heard a wady say babies come fwom cab'itches, under da weaves. Is dat where we come fwom? Cab'itches?"

His first instinct was to say no, but than he would likely be asked where babies _did_ come from and that was not something his mother would _ever_ allow him to explain to a four-year-old. However, Sherlock was just as reluctant to lie to her as he never understood why people insisted on fabricating tales that they would only have to change later as the child grew too old to believe in them. With this sort of conundrum, there was only one possible reply.

"Why don't you go ask Mummy?"

"Mummy an' Daddy went 'topping fer Cwis'mas."

"Then ask Mycroft."

"Mikey says ask you a'cause the howse is not a'fire and nobody dead."

"Then I suppose he crawled back under his rock," he muttered.

That seemed to do the trick -somehow- and the little girl ran off, her eyes wide. Deleting the whole interaction, as it would be of no use to him later, Sherlock returned his attention to his experiment. Just a few more hours and he would be finished.

 **/M\M/M\**

Mycroft ended his phone call with the Minister of Defense just as the tea finished brewing. Perfect timing. Fetching the cup from the counter, he carried it back to his room, enjoying the silence that had descended on the house over the last hour. His parents had stepped out, presumably taking Enola with them, while Sherlock was still barricaded in his room with that ridiculous experiment he insisted on bringing with him. If only the whole holiday would pass this peacefully, he may actually manage to get all his work done in a- why was the bedroom door open?

Setting his tea on a the hallway table, Mycroft reached into his jacket for his gun. One of the fears he had about coming home for the holiday was the thought that someone may have followed him for nefarious purposes. At least his family was out, with the exception of Sherlock who was quite capable of looking after himself.

Cautiously, Mycroft pushed the door open the rest of the way, scanning the space for any sign of an intruder. Strangely, the only thing out of place was a small pile of rocks that had been placed around his computer. There were four of them, ranging from dark grey to light grey, all smooth and not one bigger than a cricket ball. They were the same type that his mother used in her garden, but how did they get in his bedroom? However, a creak from the doorway made him forget about the rocks and he swivelled to point his gun at- Enola!

"Hi Mikey," she said with a smile. "What'cha got dere?"

"It's nothing," he answered quickly, shoving his weapon into its holster. "What are you doing in my room?"

"I b'ought you mo' wocks," she announced proudly.

Swinging a small plastic pail from behind her back, the girl held it up for him to examine the contents. Sure enough, inside the pink container was five more stones of the same size, shape, and colour as the ones he found on his desk. While that explained how the rocks had made it onto his room, it still left the question as to why.

"Enola, why are you bringing me rocks?"

"A'cause you said you wanna be wif fam'my for Cwis'mas."

As her explanation raised more questions than answers, Mycroft decided he better accept the rocks without complaint. Taking the flimsy handle with the tips of his fingers, he set in next to his desk in hopes that this display of childish affection was at an end and he could get back to work. Unfortunately, his sister just stood there, her head cocked to one side, with an expression of pure concentration that would not allow him any of his own.

"Was there something else?" he asked, trying to remain patient.

"Jus tinking," she replied. "You don't wook wika wock."

The statement was so absurd that Mycroft swivelled his chair to stare at her. Why would she- where would she- how-

"What are you talking about?"

"Sherwy said you came fwom a wock and you c'wall back under it som'times."

So that was where she got the idea. Of all the- Mycroft took a deep breath, so as not to scold the child for being four. It was not her fault Sherlock was being annoying, but two could play at that game. When he was through, Sherlock would learn not to use their sister to interrupt his work. After that, maybe he would finally be able to get some peace and quiet for the holiday.

 **/S\S/S\**

Sherlock returned to his room, the final ingredients to his experiment at hand. Though, he would likely have to replace what he took from his mother's pantry, a few kilograms of coffee, flour, and baking soda was a small price to pay for science.

With his ingredients measured, as well as his gloves and breathing mask in place, he carefully began adding them to the various test tubes he had already prepared. Good, he thought to himself, completely focused on his work. Everything was going smoothly, there was just one more thing. He picked up a vial of blue liquid and popped off the cork, pouring a small amount into the first tube. Nothing happened. Strange. He pour a little into the second tube with the same results. But when he put some in the third tube, it instantly turned to foam, overflowing onto his equipment and into the other containers, contaminating the contents. A full weeks worth of work ruined … but how?

Taking off his mask, he noticed a smell that shouldn't be present. Lifting the blue liquid to his nose, everything became clear. Vinegar; he had been sabotaged! Anger welled up inside him at the only person in the house capable of-

"Bubbles!"

Damn, he had forgotten to close the door. Turning quickly, he lifted a gloved hand in order to stop his sister before she reached the chemicals. They may not all be toxic, at least not anymore, but it was still no place for a little girl.

"Did ya wike yer sa'pise?" she asked, her blue eyes sparkling. "Mikey said ya would."

Though he had already deduced that his brother had been behind this, getting confirmation that he was correct did not make him feel any better. It was a cheap and childish trick, made even more so by the fact he had apparently used their own sister to do his dirty work.

"I didn' even know pi'wats wiked bubbles."

"Pirates?" Sherlock echoed, confusion momentarily taking over his anger.

"Mikey saya you got 'bandoned by pi'wats as a baby. Dats why you so skinny."

While his first instinct was to explain to the child the descent from pirates had nothing to do with a person's weight, that would not help the situation. Mycroft had used their sister to ruin his work and he was going to have to pay for that, but how? Maybe this latest trick held the key.

"Enola, what do you know about pirates?"

 **/M\M/M\**

Finished with work, at least until he received a call back from the Chief of Defence Staff, Mycroft stretched out on his bed for a quick nap. He had not heard anything from Sherlock, so he had no way of knowing what had come from the little switch he and Enola had made. He briefly wondered if the blue vial currently residing in his desk drawer would be hazardous to leave there, but then he was not planning to keep it. He would return it to his brother, along with firm instructions not to use their sister against him. In any case, at least the drawer was locked so there was no chance of little fingers prying open the cork.

The sound of an engine outside made Mycroft relax even more, as that particular rumble could only belong to that monstrous thing his father insisted on driving. It was older than he was and long past the point it should have retired to a scrap yard, but his parents stubbornly refused to part with it, despite his numerous offers to purchase for them a new vehicle. However, at the moment, his parent's car was the least of his concerns as their presence would ensure that Enola would no longer have to seek him out to answer all her ridiculous questions.

The door to his room creaked and he opened his eyes to see his sister illuminated by the light pouring in from the hallway. She had her head cocked, as she always does when considering something, and her hands clasped behind her back. Apparently, she had yet to notice the return of their parents and had likely come to ask him about a field mouse name Geoffrey, or some other nonsense.

"What is it now, Enola?" he sighed, as she approached the foot of the bed.

The girl said nothing, just looked from his leg to his face and back again. While this was curious behaviour, even for his sister, Mycroft was not alarmed until the moment she was swinging something at his shin. By the force of the impact, he could only assume it was something hard and heavy -such as a sledge hammer or a cement truck- which caused him to jump out of bed, grabbing the injured limb in some acrobatic feat that he would not likely be able to duplicate. His shouts -none of which were things he should be saying around his young sister- mixed with Enola's cries brought both their parents running into the room.

"What in the name of Heaven is going on in here!" his mother exclaimed, taking the sobbing child in her arms. "Mike, what did you do?"

"What did _I_ do?" he snapped.

Luckily, he remembered at the last moment that it was his mother he was talking and certain rules of etiquette had to be followed -no matter how much your leg was throbbing- and he said no more. At least his father had the sense to turn on the light and take a look around, namely at the discarded hammer left on the floor next to the bed. This also made it clear to Mycroft that Sherlock had indeed discovered their little trick.

"I's sowwy," Enola cried, her words even harder to understand through the tears. "I's just wanted da sweets."

"What sweets?" their father asked gently.

"Da ones in his wooded leg."

"Wooden-" Mycroft seethed, under his breath. "I'm going to kill Sherlock."

"I think we need to have a little talk, as a family," their mother suggested, in a tone that made it clear that it was not actually a suggestion. "You three go to the living room, I'll get Sherlock."

Needless to say, limping downstairs was more comfortable than sitting next to his brother while their little sister explained the whole story. From hearing about babies and cabbage leaves to being manipulated by one sibling then the other, it was clear that she would be the only person spared their mother's wrath. However, as the boys stood outside shovelling snow ten minutes later, who would join them but a four year old girl in a pink parka wielding a plastic shovel.

"What are you doing out here," Mycroft demanded, in no mood for more of her childish antics.

"I's he'ping," she announced, scooping a handful of snow and tossing it aside.

"Why," Sherlock asked, pausing his own work. "You didn't get in trouble."

"We's fam'my," Enola replied as if it was obvious. "I's came fwom wocks and pi'wats too."

Mycroft shared a look with Sherlock, before returning his focus to the drive. He wouldn't admit it, but he was glad that he had Enola for a sister. With a brother like Sherlock, he would take all the backup he could get.

 **/S\S/S\**

Sherlock scooped a large amount of snow from the drive, depositing it onto the little pile his sister was making. Pretty soon she would have to go inside, as this was no work for a child, but he was surprised to discover that he enjoyed her company. After all, with a brother like Mycroft, he appreciated whatever back-up she could offer.

* * *

So, what did you think of their holiday?

I hope to write more of these sorts of adventure (and maybe even later ones taking place during the show), but it will be a while yet if I want to get that last chapter of "Cat's Eye" up before the 25th.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed it and feedback is always welcome.


End file.
